


I Want Your Beautiful Suffering

by JinxxTheInsomniac



Series: Project Complexx [1]
Category: Arkham Asylum (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman: The Animated Series, Emilie Autumn (Musician)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Brain Damage, Brain Surgery, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Insomnia, Inspired By Emilie Autumn's Music, Psychological Horror, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Rehabilitated!Harley Quinn, Sadism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2018-09-30 06:04:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10155707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JinxxTheInsomniac/pseuds/JinxxTheInsomniac
Summary: The questions to be answered here in this tale of woe are:What if Harley wasn't Joker's only sidekick?What would happen if Harley was rehabilitated into Harleen Quinzel? Her memory wiped of all past happenings as Harley Quinn?Read if you want to learn the answers.





	1. "Beginning, By Order of Introduction"

**Author's Note:**

> Cast:  
> Joker: https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/05/41/c3/0541c348ba952a1df2feabcaaeb4ec1d.jpg  
> Harley: https://i.ytimg.com/vi/064zbyXLrhE/hqdefault.jpg  
> Jinxx: http://images5.fanpop.com/image/photos/24600000/Captain-Maggot-the-bloody-crumpets-24636156-500-333.jpg
> 
> Inspired by: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IpJkCti8IL0&list=PL1aWONuELHMU5uInEAaN17i-187-gj4c7

‘Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane est. 1879’, the steel sign reads less than a dozen yards from the looming towers. 

The title alone could easily send a tremor down the spine of any passing onlooker. Yet for the scant few only just aware of the true wickedness occurring just behind the heavy brick walls, the sight of the barred windows and guarded doors was nothing short of a death sentence. Like the black spot being presented to a traitorous pirate, Arkham institute typically left most of it’s victims much more worse off than when they arrived. 

But it wasn't just the patients who were the corrupted, malicious individuals. No, that would be far too easy. 

Contrary to the beliefs of most uneducated bystanders, it was an unspoken truth that the Doctors, surgeons, nurses, and even the janitors were the primary culprits behind the vengeful crimes committed within the Asylum’s boundaries. From botched, unnecessary surgeries done out of morbid curiosity of the surgeons, to the Janitor's demanding certain rewards for bringing in a couple of cigs to the bargaining captives. 

To summarize, there were no innocent victims of circumstance, and instead only ignorant prisoners who’d eventually learn their place one way or another.

That isn't to say that the inmates weren't also committing heinous acts of violence when the judges had them transferred to the harrowing medical examiner's hovel. In fact, all of Arkham was simply a hive of criminals playing cat and mouse against one another; fighting mercilessly to stay above the others. There was only the bad, and the worst. 

That was, until Doctor Hugo Strange made his grand entry, using his aged skills of manipulation and his knowledge of mental corruption to obtain the title of head of Arkham Asylum. 

It was as if a silent prayer had been answered, and things abruptly changed for the decrepit institution. 

Many of the wrongdoers were fired (some even taking their places with the inmates they'd tormented so grievously, to the utmost joy of the inmates themselves.), while a government-issued band of new workers were sent to take up the newly opened shifts (Through the guidance of Bruce Wayne himself, oftentimes). 

No more were there bodies left to decay in the lesser wandered halls, and the surgeons were halted in their sessions of deconstructing inmates, regardless of their crimes (if anything, the other prisoners took part in that quite nicely. Dealing out the worser beatings to child molesters and terrorists, while also mildly ignoring the thieves and shoplifters. After all, there were worser things to be punished for.). 

 

Yet through all of Arkham’s transformation over the months and years, there was but one patient whom Hugo Strange knew could never be underestimated regardless of how or when. The prior era of Arkham had it right; Solitary was the only thing that could be done for this hysterical manipulator. Anyone with half a brain knew It would be a suicide mission to even attempt to tap into the broken mentality of this particular inmate, who to this very day, still baffled the aged doctor. 

A regular at Arkham, this man showed signs of chronic psychopathy, sociopathy, and as many other 'pathies’ as one could dig up from any college Psychology book. He was a menace, and yet, he was beautiful to Hugo Strange.  

The Joker: Arkham Asylum’s most revered and respected captive. 

Having killed at least a dozen men and women working within Arkham, and imprisoned countless others in his mind games (Including the otherwise detained Harleen Quinzel, who’d been his assigned Therapist during her time of work at Arkham), this man was only safe in a place where others were safe from him.

Solitary Confinement.  

It was a medieval form of punishment, everyone knew, but one which reaped the most results unlike many modernized forms of medical aid for the addled mind. 

Like a ghost, there would be days where the man wouldn't even make a sound while within his windowless plush room, and then there were days where he would cackle and shout so loud that it was almost as if he were standing quite nearby. 

The head of Arkham didn't know if Solitary truly would be beneficial to The Joker in any way, but until such a time came where he truly was able to examine the Clown-Prince of Crime up close and without hindrance, it was a necessary evil to keep him locked away. 

Harley Quinn would surely be along later to bust her boyfriend out. In fact, Dr. Strange hoped that she would be clever enough to get into The Asylum. After all, she would be the ideal subject for his experiments on psychopathy. 

It seemed impossible, but Dr Strange aspired to redeem The Joker’s former therapist, and return her to her former alias. ‘Impossible’, The associates would comment. ‘She is too far gone’. Others would add in grim agreement.  

He would prove them wrong, Hugo mused, all he needed was a test subject. 


	2. "Lost, Forgotten"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the mad long intro for this fanfiction. But my character will be along in the next chapter, I promise you. :)

The cacophony of security guards tossing the bewildered inmates into each of their cells, one after another, took much longer than expected. The cursing and unruly beatings could cause any listener to grit their teeth from the sheer brunt of the force being put into affect. If but one inmate was left out unsupervised before the 9 pm bell rang, there would be hell to pay. 

Dr. Strange admired the chaos from a balcony overlooking the numerous makeshift corridors, his reserved expression neutral and disinterested at the sight of the overly violent guards beating the more rebellious inmates with their batons. 

At long last, right on its usual cue, the electric bell rang, and thankfully just moments after the last patient had been put away. It was a loud shriek which resounded like a scream in the night, causing various of the more unhinged inmates to cover their ears and rock back and forth from the sheer intensity. 

Yet as soon as it was over, the silence was almost inhumanly heavy. No one dared to call out into the deadened halls at first, fearful of drawing attention to themselves. So instead, the unearthly silence was what coerced them all to sleep (coupled with the overzealous amounts of medications issued out at each supper).

Hugo finally left the balcony. He and the other doctors and nurses would have another hour of light left before the power would be cut for the night until 6 am, sharp, the next morning. It was not an abnormal sight to see The Arkham Head asleep on the aged leather couch in his office. He was a dedicated, hard worker, so one blamed him, nor attempted to rouse him when he would be discovered. 

While the Medical representatives would tend to the last remnants of work necessary for the next day, the wardens would begin the precarious task of taking attendance for all the inmates to assure that none had made an escape. 

All ten guards took for themselves a clipboard which held the names, identification numbers, and cellblocks of each and every prisoner. The checklists were seemingly inconspicuous, kept indistinct and unimpressionable in order to gamble for which officer would be designated for each collection of inmates. 

Of course, it was the rookie who’d gotten the clipboard with ‘Solitary’ scrawled across the top in vibrant scarlet ink. It would be his duty to ensure that The Joker hadn’t escaped and that there were no visual indications that he was planning one. It was obvious who’d gotten the privilege of checking that eerie wing of Arkham, as his face turned paler than a sheet upon reading the condemning paper. 

Almost as soon as the newbie had collected his own clipboard it was instantly obvious where he'd been assigned to examine, his face turning paler than a sheet at the sheer horror. 

Taunting laughter resonated from the other guards, all of them having dealt with that unnerving chore at least a thousand times prior. It was old jump scares and illusions to them, now. To ensure that Solitary was left untouched would only be a stepping stone in the maturing of the younger warden.   

 

A flashlight beam intercepted the eerily quiet metal doors among Solitary to conclude that no locks had been tampered with. The younger guard, going by the name of Aaron Hill, was positively sickly due to the horror stories he’d been told about the deaths having occurred of prisoners and guards alike. His timid footsteps crept down the small stairway which opened into Solitary, and the guard flicked on the nearby switch that would submerge the empty hall into the blessed safety of light.

That is, it would’ve, if less than ten seconds later the electricity hadn’t cut for the night. How typical, the warden thought with a disgruntled sniff.  

With the hum of the generators dying, a startled yelp escaped the scrawny guard’s throat as he worriedly grabbed the flashlight kept at his belt for reasons such as these.

“Who’s out there?!” A garbled, metallic voice resonated from behind the only populated cell. This alone made young Aaron feel as if his soul was about to leave out of his head. He didn’t want to answer the famed psychopathic killer behind the door but knew he had a job to do.  

One lift of the food slot allowed the flashlight to shine into the extremely dark, padded room. Aaron’s eyes trailed along with the beam of the flashlight until it reached the corner of the chamber.

Thankfully, there was the convict, seemingly knotted up in a sheet in the corner of the room. The green, matted hair of The Joker, followed by his bony face being graced with a crimson smile only comparable to a theatre's grinning mask was what caused the security guard to give a gulp of fear, transfixed by the almost supernatural way The Joker beamed at him given the circumstances. 

Without seemingly a care in the world, the inmate raised an alabaster-painted hand and gave Aaron a seemingly well-meaning wave. The beam of light was trembling subtly due to the anxious fellow’s nerves. 

“Wanna come join us? We’re telling ghost stories!” The Joker shouted eagerly as he let out a coughing laugh which echoed like a hyena’s cackle against the metallic environment. The younger guard let out a panicked wail before allowing the food slot to fall closed with a resounding snap. The Joker continued to chortle even after the timid guard had left, his laughter echoing like a ghost’s throughout the abandoned halls. 

That was the last chore the newly-hired officer had been given. Now he could clock out and go home to his lonely apartment and be alone without the need to converse with anyone else for the rest of the night. 

That was the perfect ending to a rather ominous day, Aaron thought wistfully.   

“Howdy~!” A high-pitched girly voice echoed from above the exhausted guard, to which he practically threw up out of sheer alarm. With an intricate session of flips and twirls, The Joker’s equally crazy girlfriend bounded from the rafters, her stature being just above Aaron’s. 

With an intricate session of flips and twirls, The Joker’s equally crazy girlfriend bounded from the rafters, her stature posting her at least a head taller than Aaron. 

Her ebony lips bore a smile of what almost could’ve implied friendliness at one time, but the younger guard knew better. 

“H-Harley.” He gasped out of sheer awe and horror. She was as beautiful as she was vicious. All a part of her charm, everyone supposed. 

“The one and only!” She beamed, crossing her arms over her voluptuous corseted chest. “I’m lookin’ for The Jay. Ya seen him?” She asked coyly as if it were nothing more than an impromptu coffee-shop meeting instead of an asylum break-in. 

“You shouldn’t be here… how did you g-get in…--.” Aaron reached for the taser in his belt. 

She held up a red gloved hand, her eyes sparkling in the flashlight’s glint.    
“Ah, ah, ah… That’s not the question we’re gonna answer, sweetie.” She snapped before she held up a comically colored pistol that looked more like a toy than a legitimate weapon of mass destruction. It was merely for show, but the guard didn’t want to take any chances. From far off, some of the nearby male inmates started to whistle and hoot at the sound of the Clown’s Queen. Things were far from okay, now. In one night Arkham Asylum had turned into a circus (no pun intended). Harley cocked the gun and aimed it at the guard’s nose. Lord only knew what would happen when she pulled that trigger. 

“Tell me where Mista J is or I might have to reorganize that oily face o’ yours.” 

The barrel of her gun abruptly pressed against his cheekbone as the insane girl let out a pitched giggle. 

Seconds before the barrel would've been unloaded due to his negligence, the lights instantly turned on everywhere, casting Harley in an almost radiant glow as the undeniable clatter of rifles loading filled the air. 

“Put down the gun, Miss Quinzel, and come quietly.” The intercom demanded, Dr. Strange’s voice sounding eerily robotic against the aged intercom system.  

“Aw shove it, asshole. I ain’t ‘Quinzel’ no more.” She half-shrieked as her gun was dropped and cracked (cheap plastic, no doubt). Two guards flanked Harley and immediately clamped a pair of handcuffs over her knobby little wrists. Thankfully, unlike the Joker, she knew when to quit. Most of the time. 

Dr. Strange was still in his daily uniform, the golden badge proclaiming proudly his role as Head of Arkham. He beheld the naive woman as she struggled against the vice-like grips of her captors, her blue eyes fiery as her slender figure heaved with rage. 

“And what’s your problem? Daddy accidentally leave you the night of ‘Bring your kid to work day’?” Harley asked rhetorically, glowering down at the shorter man standing at the scene.  

The Doctor offered a half-smirk, her patronizing remark offering little to no ground against him. 

“I have many plans for you, Quinzel. Hopefully, in a few months time, you will be able to abandon your idea of The Joker being your lover and instead join the winning side.” 

Harley sniffed, a tuft of hair having come undone from her pigtails as she struggled more angrily against the hefty guards. 

“As long as I’m with my Mista J, there’s nothing that’ll scare me.” She snapped, spittle emerging from the corners of her inky hapless smile. There wasn’t an inch of fear portraying itself on her face; interesting.  

“Get her to Room #636, I’ll be along shortly.” Dr. Strange mused just before she began to attack, hurling insults at either guard and to Doctor Strange as she battled against her captors. 

Her attacks disabled one guard, who’d released her after she’d sent a heel into his eye, and the other would’ve easily been taken down moments after if it wasn’t for a sharp pain followed by a lethargic rush to overcome the furious blonde girl. She’d been tranquilized, and she only had a few moments before the venom would take her over and she’d be an easy submissive prisoner as everyone else at Arkham was. 

Harley was fading fast, her wide blue eyes blinking feverishly as she desperately tried to writhe away from the Arkham security. But it was all for naught, and she soon fell against the floor of the men’s ward, their eager hollars being the last thing she heard before the entire world went dark. 


	3. "Broken, Awoken"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuing with Harley, Introducing my poor, hapless Jinxx...  
> (Gore warning and extreme Psychological fuckery, don't read this chapter if you're easily triggered by mentions of blood)

The tranquilization didn’t last nearly as long as Harley had hoped, and she’d awoken just as she was brought into what appeared to be a high-class laboratory. To her utmost alarm, upon looking down at herself to survey whatever damage she'd acquired, the plain pattern of a hospital gown was what caught her eye first.  That meant only one thing; her weapons had been collected and now were gone. All of them. Even her signature pigtails had been freed out from their elastics, leaving her hair hanging around her face like matted doll-hair. Strapped to a steel table of leather belts which bit ceaselessly at her skin, Harley knew from the start that no one would be able to free her before any of Arkham's fun began. Unfortunately, the benefits of owning dimwitted

Unfortunately, the benefits of owning dimwitted Goons as opposed to professional terrorists were few and far between. And this was among those reasons against going the cheaper route when acquiring a like-minded city-demolishing-team. For example, Mista J adored the idea of having completely submissive, cheaper versions of the real deal. So, in exchange for a mere thug-appearance and none of the benefits which professional gangsters had standard was not nearly worth it in the end. one had come since the security guards had left her there. The minutes ticked on like hours as a headache she'd received upon

For example, Mista J adored the idea of having completely submissive, cheaper versions of the real deal. So to successfully obtain the tax-cut, almost all of the childish idiots trailing J were nothing short of wannabes and kids with daddy issues. Guys who looked the part, but lacked the benefits which professional gangsters had as standard. But the clown and jester had to suffice with the circus runaways and the mentally retarded with a fetish for death.

To summarize, it wasn't nearly worth it in the end. So if you're gonna go out shopping for criminals and lunatics, stick to the pricier route. 

The minutes ticked on like hours, and the headache Harley had received upon being awoken wasn't getting better. At this point, it was getting almost undeniably irritating. For a moment she wished her Puddin' would shoot her with his stun-gun so she could take a nap and wait for the obnoxiously throbbing migraine to run its course.  

Strapped to a steel table with leather belts and buckles biting ceaselessly into her skin, she had, after years of frequented prison sessions, learned the repercussions if she were to struggle any with the aged leather. It would hurt for a long time after, and it would scar into a bramble bracelet. That's why she wore the wrist armor, to hide away the grueling representations of the endless nights within Arkham. 

Harley looked around and around the room, the only noises she could hear being the deeply rooted hums of the generators behind the walls, and the occasional pitter-pat of rats scurrying along the darkest corners.

"What would Jay do if he was here?" She asked into the dark, allowing a maniacal giggle to escape when her voice echoed back to her. It was almost like there was a second person there, watching just out of sight. "He would tell a joke." She answered herself confidently, to which her voice replied in an eerily metallic tumbling. 

"What do a group of crows and a serial killer have in common?" She asked as she rested her head idly against the steel table. She awaited her question to bounce back to her. 

"A Murder!" She answered before succumbing to a fit of somber laughter. But soon after, her laughter, which had started out soft and calm, became unhinged and breathless as she continued to laugh until her head was bashing violently against the table beneath her. Breathless, she didn't even cease when her lungs had almost completely drained of air and she could feel a migraine coming on. The jerking of her body against the confines was so strong that she could feel the wheels of the table turning and teetering from the force. 

Without a sign or warning in sight, the rusty Laboratory Door threw itself open with a great guttural scream.

The reserved gaze of Doctor Strange raking up and down her nearly naked form, sending Harley into a state of hysterical fury. Her darkly painted lips were sore from being curled up into the wide, grimacing smile for so long, but she didn't alter her expression. Not in the slightest. 

She continued to giggle, however much more quietly, obviously using the feigned amusement to cope with the true fear lancing through her nerves. 

Every single possibility towards what his intentions might’ve flitted through Harley’s mind at least a million times as she clenched and unclenched her frail hands. By this point, they'd been numb for quite some time, so it wasn't a surprise to see her fingers, knuckles, and palm be tinted a shade of dusty blue from the lack of circulation to them.

Finally, she let out a plethora of incomprehensible babbling before speaking coherently for the first time, “Whatchya gonna do to me?” 

“You didn’t hear what I’d said earlier?” He replied in an eerily calm tone which sent tremors down the spine of the young Harlequin despite her uninhibited smile never waning in the slightest. 

“I plan to heal you from your Hysteria, Doctor.” He concluded, his eyes glimmering with vain determination.

Harley's defiant smile vanished entirely, her brows becoming furled at the accusation centered towards her. “I don’t need to be healed. I’m better than ever!” She exclaimed, obviously insulted by Hugo’s statement. After Joker had liberated her from the role of Harleen, she had discovered in herself a new sense of freedom she’d never before experienced. It was liberating, as it was needed. She was destined to become the Harlequin. Her completed idealization and self-worth finding solace in her alias as Harley Quinn.  

Harley was the fearless warrior Harleen could never be.

“Au contraire, Harleen.” Hugo tsked as he tended to something on a steel table behind her. “You’re very sick, as all my patients are. You hit your head while on your way out after your shift, Harleen. It damaged your head and you were out cold for over an hour. Psychosis is very common for neurotic injuries similar to what you suffered.”

Harley’s heart thrummed beneath her ribs as she immediately knew what his intentions were. He was attempting to alter her memories with Joker in hopes of bettering her responses and behavior.   She watched seemingly with detached interest, her azure eyes glazed over and distant. She could smell the undeniable sharpness of hydrogen peroxide. 

“Fuck off you old shrew!” She shrieked as she, against her better judgment, began to fight against her restraints, earning a sharp rush of pain as her skin began to rub raw from the friction.

“Who is the Joker? you said that name a great deal whilst unconscious.” 

Within the expanse of a second, Harley Quinn went from a fearless criminal to a tearful little girl. Hugo watched with interest at the abrupt deconstruction of his former equal. Desperation laced her movements as her hands turned into fists and yanked the belted cuffs. Blood drenched her hand, making everything all the more complicated.   

“I ain’t one of your patients--! Just let me go! I’ll come quietly, you can have the Bats called and he’ll get me! I swear-- nobody’s gotta know about this!”  

He appeared in her peripheral vision, holding out a tranquilizer in one hand while the other feverishly swished a vial of the same concoction.  

“You have no idea how long we’ve been preparing for this day.” He whispered as he walked towards’ her, the syringe's point adding to the overall panic which triggered Harley into a state of sheer animalistic insanity. If any witnesses had believed her former struggle to be the strongest attempt, they would be entirely wrong. Hugo was almost afraid she would shred the restraints. Already he could see a tiny rip near her thumb steadily expanding. He had to work quickly. 

Yet despite Harley's incoherent shrieking and slurred curses, he continued his torturously slow speech, as though it eventually would calm the imprisoned Harlequin.

“... After all, to render a patient clinically psychotic is one thing, returning them to their original, healthy mentality is entirely different, if not impossible. It took my old college mates and me years to develop the ideal solution to trick the brain into an amnesiac state without the definite possibility of there being any... permanent damages. You, of all people, should know that the brain is a very intricate series of knotted cogs and wires, and can easily break if handled roughly. And we wouldn’t want that, now would we?” He beamed his face beading with sweat due to the hot lights overhead.

“But as I was saying, as soon as the brain has been virtually wiped of any memory or knowledge, therapists and psychologists will be able to rewire the nerves and subsequently rewrite the victim. I will say that this process is extremely painful, at least according to past study subjects, but in the end, this is the lesser of two evils. Perhaps one day you'll thank me.”

“You’re insane,” Harley whispered under her breath, her eyes wide and glassy as her chest heaved with ire. She swung violently between crying and giggling. 

“Careful, ‘Puddin’, it is not I strapped to that table. I don’t want too much blood to spill. It’s bad for business.” He said in a low voice, only to reach a higher octave when he’d taunted her with the nickname she’d given her beloved.    

Yet despite Harley’s desperation, nothing could be done as Hugo slid an alcohol swab against the flesh of her neck briefly before the prick jabbed into the vein. Harley's erratic breathing became raspy and pitched as her head thrashed desperately away from the injection site. 

“What is that?” She whispered, tears running down her white-painted face, streaking black eyeliner down it until she looked like a reimagined grim reaper.

“Shhh… Everything will be fine, Harleen… Just deep breaths.”

If Harley focused hard enough she could feel the unknown substance rolling through her veins from the injection point. Hell only knew exactly what would go down when this mysterious concoction would begin working. This had to be an illegal practice. It just had to be.

Never before had she thought it, but now she wished that she was on the Batman’s side so that he could save her. Because for now, with Joker locked up elsewhere, no one would go looking for her, or even realize she's missing.

She could die within Arkham and only those hired goons of Jokers would be consciously aware of their disappearance. 

Her Mista J wouldn’t know what happened to her!

"Tell Mista J.... Tell him... I-I... tell... him...."

////////////////////////////////00000000000000000000000000000000000\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

 

_Pain._

_Dark._

_Loud._

_Blood._

A shock of agony ripped up and down her form as she let out a shriek-filled sob of fear and confusion. Her eyes, which had appeared sealed shut abruptly tore open as her amber eyes flitted about the room in dazed fear and bewilderment.

Who was she?

How had she come to be here?

Braced to a table, the woman struggled as the strangers dressed in white coats stood over her like pillars, all gazing down at her seemingly in a distracted state. Many wore masks which confused her all the more.

“The Anesthetics wore off, doctor.” A female voice cried in alarm, her gaze meeting the bewildered victim. Each word felt like fire against her ears, and the woman strained desperately to block out the pain but it was of no use. A gag was wound incomprehensibly tightly around her lower face as she sobbed and pleaded for mercy. 

“I told you to use the maximum dose of anesthetics!” An infuriated Russian-accented voice resounded, causing the apparent nurse to shy away like a cursed child. In and out the bewildered patient's gaze bobbed, and it was almost impossible to try and focus on one thing at a time as the walls would go from steel to slime, to steel, to fuzz, and so on.

“I did. If we gave her anymore she would’ve been at risk for a coma!” The nurse bit back. 

A pitched whistle resounded in the girl's ears as the speedy cadence of a heart monitor could be heard from somewhere far off.

A language unknown to the victim began to resound as her head lolled back and forth. There was blood everywhere. What was happening? Had she forgotten to wear a pad? She had to get home, surely her mother and friends... would be waiting for her puppy to… open… the presents…--

The surgeon was suddenly in her face, snapping his fingers erratically to get her to focus, his other hand filled with bloody surgical instruments.

“Do you know your name?” He asked in a foreign accent.

A blinding light intercepted the girl’s vision in order to check the dialysis of her eyes. The action alone sent her reeling and nauseated as a migraine roared through her temples and vomit burned her throat. The gag was ripped free, and she sputtered and coughed. 

“N-No--!” She gasped, fearful and trembling like an injured animal as a feverish sweat drained along her face and chest.

Once more the angry hot pain lanced up the girl's malnourished body and she let out a guttural scream, seizures possessing her limbs. The doctors surrounding her gurney suddenly pushed her head to face the side as the buzzing of a drill could be heard quite close to her ear, followed by a sloshing wet noise. 

“Make the pain stop! Please! I want my mama!! Where's my mama?!?!” She pleaded in a slur, her tongue like lead on the floor of her mouth. “It hurts so bad, _mammaaaaaaaa!!!!!_ ”

“SHUT UP!” The doctor roared before the world went spinning and the gurney she'd been belted to toppled onto its side, wires and bloodied cotton falling with her.

Now the pain was dull, resonating from her middle and spreading outward. Blood puddled around her against the dusty linoleum as her poor addled mind struggled to function and understand what was happening. Nothing at all made sense aside from the acceptance that she wasn't supposed to be there; that she was a victim.  

Gunshots rang out from somewhere far off as yelling resounded even further.

The amnesiac woman tried to call for help, but she was only met with even more pain, and then darkness as the heart monitor beeped cheerfully onward.  


	4. "A Complexx Crime"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Sorry its a shorter chapter today! :*)  
> Feel free to comment, and thank you already to the people who've commented to earlier chapters  
> Y'all are awesome

“Doctor J. Saarn, on September thirtieth of the year two-thousand-twenty. Time of recording: Fourteen-twenty-six…” He took a long, contemplative sigh before resuming the tape recording. 

“Thirteen. She's number thirteen of 'Project Complexx'; A research study I've initiated to create a subculture of equal-minded, impressionable supersoldiers to serve a secret benefactor. Twelve young adults have been exposed to the experimental serum, and none of them have lived past a week, their behaviors becoming far too unpredictable to control. Unfortunately, my poor twelve orphans were far too along with the corrective therapies to undo what was done. All of them now sing with the angels, but it is better this way... Regardless, it was my impression that I would have no will to continue the study beyond a dozen failed attempts, but I feel it is my duty to complete what has now been a five-year process. We've gotten too close to success to stop." Dr. Saarn once more ceased the aged rolling of the plastic tape, the pads of his fingertips lifting to his lips and teeth as he ran them across as though sampling a dip of some kind. He was meditating the procedures Subject #13 had gone through, and the ones she'd yet to go through. Needing to be conscious, the scrawny dame writhed so erotically against the pain while bound to the operating table, her blood coating him so that he hardly could focus on the dissection process he'd committed. His index finger and thumb had accumulated a tiny sample of his own saliva, which he pressed together and stirred between the digits before continuing the recording. He had to document his studies, and handwritten papers were too easily confiscated by men who wished to do his ideas injustice. It was an ancient form of collecting information, but an effective one. He'd had all of his tapes installed with a self-destruct, which could be triggered at the push of a button. If his laboratory were ever to be invaded, he need only push one button to trigger the rest of them, and his research will only exist in the confines of his own mind. 

The whirring of the tape prompted his focused continuation. 

"Thirteen: The number frequently associated with misfortune and bad luck. My Patient of that very number has shown remarkable strength as her DNA is merged with the steroids, though her heart has stopped on more than one occasion. That will no longer be of any concern due to the recent surgery to compromise her cerebellum. Despite there having been a break-in of outside forces, we were able to revive the patient, her survival rates having risen dramatically. The procedure did exactly as intended, providing her with a chronic case of insomnia, as I'd predicted it would. 

"It is my belief that her inability to sleep will eventually cause her to be virtually unstoppable with madness, but through rehabilitation, she will learn to control and contain it. Therapy has begun, soon she will bring about a new era of superhumans who will strike fear into the minds of any who see her. I will be God to them, and I will watch as the corrupt of the world falls in submission to the feet of my beloved thirteenth experiment and her siblings.”

The aged recording device concluded with the click of a button, and not at all too soon. He was aroused beyond belief at the recollection of the unnamed victim doused in blood and pleading for mercy. Dr. Saarn was no rapist, but he could not deny the sadist thoughts running through his mind at the time. He had done nothing to the girl, but there were no guarantees that he'd have the strength to resist his taboo desires always. 

For a moment he waited in silence, staring ahead into the one-way window with admiration for his handiwork.

She sat in the exact center of her room on a folding metal chair, appearing as an unruly assemblage of bones clad in a loose-fitting hospital gown. She didn't speak or move, the only thing reassuring him of her consciousness was the subtle, lethargic rise and fall of her scrawny chest. 

The only thing truly unnerving, which sent even Dr. Saarn into a state of mild discomfort, was that she was looking directly at him, as though merely staring through a normal window instead of a one-way. It sent tremors down his spine purely for the neutral, unimpressionable glare she defaulted to, her mismatched eyes and gruesome stitches of the more recent surgeries of the past months giving her the appearance of a Frankenstein-like reincarnation. 

She would make a fine warrior for his cause.

He knew she couldn't see him and finally convinced himself that she was just looking at the reflection she cast, and he was simply in the general direction. After all, she couldn't even remember her own name, the memory-loss process having taken full effect since her arrival, so how could she figure out the prospects of a mirror, never mind a one-way mirror.  

Beside him rested a bowl of fruit, supposedly for decoration. With aged grace and calmness, he plucked and apple from the wooden bowl and held it gingerly in his hand. With the other hand he pulled out the swiss-army knife he carried. In an almost seductive way, he carved at the apple until four slices were freed from the seed-filled center before biting into one of them contemplatively.  

Her eyelids sluggishly opened and closed, revealing the exhaustion already beginning to take effect after the surgery. Yet she revealed no reaction to anything around her. 

“Patient Thirteen.” His throaty voice resounded into the intercom system, but the girl did not stir or respond in any way. He wondered if the radios were still working. 

“What is your name?” 

His inquiry was a statement, but the girl did, at last, acknowledge him. From memory, she quoted back every syllable of a speech Dr. Saarn had drilled into her addled brain since the anesthesia had worn off after her procedure. In a tone that was almost robotic, to Dr. Saarn, it was like listening to a Siren's seductive tune. 

“I am the perfect soldier. I will bring peace and prosperity against the enemies of the law of right and good, and serve my superiors without resistance or thoughts of rebellion.” 

The pleased doctor jammed the second apple slice through the food slot, and she lunged for it, holding it to her face with both hands like a monkey. With the vigor and enthusiasm of an untamed beast, she finished the apple in a few bites, concluding the small meal by licking her hands and the floor where it had briefly resided. 

For a moment the Doctor and his patient were less than an inch apart. Through the glass of the one-way window, the wild girl stared directly into his eyes, childish intrigue plastered across the surgically marred flesh of her face. She didn't say anything, and it brought an alarming sense of compassion for the scrawny thing. She would never know the life she once lived, how sad, he mused deftly. 

_ Bang!... _

_ Bang!... _

_ Bang!... _

Her fist had begun repetitively hitting the glass in an eerie cadence, her reddened gaze sneering numbly at him-- or herself. Dr. Saarn realized immediately just how far the girl's mental state had been deteriorated, and resisted the rush of horrific panic which abruptly had seized his limbs. 

Like an infant, she would eventually have to learn through cognitive exposure. He would have to adopt her and train her completely himself in order to ensure her mental state wouldn't fail in the end. 

The bumbling nurses would only scuff up his prize; he needed her perfect if she was to be his archetypal Supersoldier of which to replicate. 

 


	5. "Tooth and Nail"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not being very active lately. HEre's a long chapter <3  
> And don't worry, this isn't the end. I have many, many, MANY ideas :)  
> But if you want to send me any of your ideas, DM me or leave them in the comments!  
> They really help me out, and I can't stretch far enough how much I appreciate everyone reading this <3

Dr. Saarn realized immediately just how far the girl's mental state had been deteriorated to not understand the concepts of a mirror.

He would have to commit to the more intimate and long-term effect procedures, himself. The nurses weren't to be trusted.

Unfortunately, one of the side effects of the constant surgery on the right side of her head in order to successfully eliminate the young girl's ability to sleep without any mishaps or relapses had caused the follicles of hair not to grow. The gruesome stitches and staples of the more recent surgery stood out proud from her shaved head. Among other rows of stitchery decorating her skin, she looked almost comical with her mismatched eyes and her remarkably sharp features. She would make a fine warrior for his cause.

The rehabilitation sessions had been a slow but eventually progressive outcome.

White rooms.

White rooms which are held together with white halls, which are sealed away by locked metal doors which rattle and hiss when they open.

That was all that Patient No.13 knew. She was like an obedient child, submissively following the whims of her superiors, doing only as commanded, and following as the perfect soldier.

With the end of each day, like clockwork, she would be held down by leather straps, gagged, and forcibly introduced to 40,000 volts of electricity against her temples, triggering amnesia to prevent her from knowing anything in the event of an ambush by outsiders. After all, if word was to get out of the secret institution, the entire mission Dr. Saarn had been assigned, as well as his well-being would be fatally compromised. He couldn't afford to take any chances, so had to take drastic actions.

He watched her like a spider to a fly as she ruthlessly attacked a punching bag with her bare fists, blood spurting from the weathered skin of her knuckles. As he'd demanded, there would be no amount of mercy for the young soon-to-be soldier, as he didn't want her to have any semblance of favoritism or kindness to promote an influence to her motives. Rarely would even he present himself before her, preferring to remain elusive and godlike to the girl with the mismatched eyes of brown and blue.  He may not have held any part of her addled mentality, but she was all he could think about. Whether contemplating the fatherly role he'd dubbed himself with upon her rebirth, or debating the exhilarating benefits which he would most certainly claim if he were to keep her as his own, Saarn's thoughts were not nearly so pure when it came to the young patient. It had been driven to the point of obsessive pedophilia (Saarn was over forty years her senior. He could've easily been her grandfather), as his own bed had begun to take on a rather musky scent due to the unnumbered nights he spent in the throes of his sadistic fantasies.   

But that would be a long, long time from now. 

After months of exceptionally hard training, she was muscled and imposing, despite her rather small stature. The tattoos she'd had prior to her capture only added to the demand for subjugation from any who dared impose her. Yet even as the weeks dwindled on, she showed no signs of slowing down in even the slightest way. It would've been disturbing if it wasn't exactly the goal for the deranged Russian doctor.

Everything was going perfectly smoothly until disaster struck almost three months after No.13's therapy had begun.

Almost as if it was planned from the start, an alarm shrieked from the main corridor, signaling the unidentified invasion of someone having trespassed without authorization. He bolted to action, taking into his left hand, a loaded revolver, and into the other one, a pill that would kill him instantly if the battle were to be lost and his imprisonment eminent.

"They're already in B4!" A nurse cried, to which Dr. Saarn felt his heart clench in dismay. These invaders had been inside his fortress for far longer than he'd thought. Perhaps it was a blessed mistake that they'd triggered the alarm and alerted him of their presence.

Quickly, he stormed into the research facilities, thankful that there appeared to be no adjustments to the equally plain and organized corridor. His footsteps were echoey and hollow, as he punched in his personal access code, which gave him immediate entry to anywhere within the facility without limitations. Loading the revolver clenched around his palm, he knew he'd be no match against the invaders; they obviously were quick and elusive, quite unlike himself, so much older and decrepit. The bullet in the chamber was not intended for him either. 

One thought pulsed through his head like a beacon.

He had to undo the damage.

No.13 sat on the bed in a seemingly frozen state, her hollow gaze staring straight ahead, as if she hadn't heard him approach.

"There you are, Patient No.13, now be a good girl and hold still." He urged in his thick accent, the gun cocking in his hand as he aimed it point-blank at the side of her head, just above her ear.   

She chanced a glance over to the intimidating weapon, but gave no response. Saarn wondered if she had already wanted to die.  

That moment of contemplation was all she needed. Within the blink of an eye, the young patient attacked, her lithe, toned figure abruptly diving towards him, causing the bullet to become embedded into the plaster wall behind them. She was wearing naught more a hospital gown, but that did nothing to impede on her inhumane strength. No semblance of modesty prevented her from her target, despite the gown being exceptionally short and indecent.

Her foot pinned the hand clenched around the gun, while her other leg braced against his neck. Lastly, her hands were entwined in his thinning, white hair in order for him to look at her fully.

"What are you doing." She growled between gritted teeth as spittle rained down against his glasses.  

"Don't... please..." He gagged softly as she apathetically held him with as much revile and hate as she would have for an enemy. After all, was that not how she was programmed to respond? 

She abruptly jerked his neck to the side, breaking it in less than a moment with a teeth-gritting pop. He laid there, his eyes wide with the remnants of alarm plastered over his weathered features. She straightened, forgetting instantly of the damage she'd caused to the man who'd recreated her into the super-soldier she was now. She didn't bother to pick up the gun Dr. Saarn had still wrapped in his talon-like fingers, knowing that it would only slow her down, and it would be a hand-to-hand combat death that would bring her satisfaction; nothing less.  This was the first time she was out of her room without security flanking and watching her every move. It was... odd.

The alarm still buzzed in the distance, which caused No.13's vision to distort and her ears to ring due to the severity of pitch; an unfortunate side-effect of the treatments she'd received.   

She followed the hallways casually, yet skeptically, having no prior knowledge of where they might lead or even what the outside looked like. There had to be something, but she couldn't put a picture to what 'that' might be.  

Her ginger hair, which was now more neon orange than coppery red, was very long on the left side of her face where it grew without hindrance. Alternatively, the back of her head was cropped short to allow for easy access to the top of her spine. At least it allowed for a rather soothing relief of air to cool her heated flesh.  

That's when, suddenly, she came upon a guard.

Not just any guard; an invader.

She watched him, unsure of what to do. After all, she hadn't been commanded to attack yet. 

That's when he heard her approaching, and looked up. He tried to hide it, but No.13 could clearly see the look of disgusted awe at the sight of the decrepit woman staring at him with an almost unblinking glower. 

"I'm hurt, will you help me?" He asked softly, removing the helmet which had covered his entire face. Blood coursed down his left leg just beneath his knee, where a rather massive hole contrasted against the heavy, off-white armor, having been amateurishly wrapped by an already crusty, brown cloth bandage. This was the first time she'd seen an outsider's face, and it was something that perplexed her to the point of shock. She didn't know how to respond, bemusement causing her to stand as rigid and unmoving as a pole.

"Your head... oh my god, are you okay?-- What did they do to you?"

He must've seen the scar, she guessed, though continued to remain silent. The scar _was_ a rather unnerving sight; snaking along the side of her head from the back to branch around the flesh of her eye like a lightning bolt.

It was a disturbing token of the affections having been inflicted on her, but it was a talisman of perseverance and power that which even she struggled to understand.

He took one step towards her and she was abruptly on top of him, having thrown him to the ground without a warning or supposed reason. He hit the ground with a thud, causing the surrounding area to vibrate slightly at the impact. 

"What are you?" He whispered frantically just as Jinxx crushed the heel of her bare foot against the bullet-hole entryway, causing the older man to shriek from the remarkable pain.

She leaned forward at the inquiry, until her lips slid across his hollow cheek as he sobbed from the pain. With her thin, crimson lips resting affectionately just above his ear, she smiled and gave a soft, seductive chuckle.

"I am Jinxx. I am god."

At her ultimately bizarre response, his left arm jerked a bit, causing the young girl to look over.

An exceptionally large machine gun was held to her, now, which she kicked far out of reach, alarming the man as he surveyed her remarkable strength despite her undeniably small, malnourished figure.

The weapon impacting the ground suddenly caused a collection of slabs to separate and reveal a hollow noise. Jinxx had heard this and knew what it meant.

Ignoring the hapless soldier as he silently nursed his wound, Jinxx knew already that he wouldn't be walking again.

She got up and charged towards where the hollow noise had resonated and began pulling aside the tiles having separated.

Sure enough, there was something there.

She dug, breaking away more shards and chips with the recently broken machine gun parts. There it was.

It was a wooden escape having been covered by the tiles to conceal it.

She pulled the wood apart, prying it stubbornly with her bare hands before she suddenly was able to create a hole into the outside world.

It was an ocean, a tumultuous, raving, wild ocean; thick with a violent storm occurring overhead.

They'd been hiding on a pile of rocks far from the shores of the nearest city, the research facility disguised effectively against the wet, orange stones. She was so alarmed that she failed to notice the approaching enemy having arrived to aid the fallen soldier, until it was too late.

A thick-soled boot clapped against the small of her back, rendering her completely off-balance as she shrieked vile obscenities in a plethora of different languages. 

She couldn't even grab anything to slow her fall, so instead had to fall into the water with a muted splash. 

Murky water remained to be the last thing Jinxx saw before slipping away into darkness. 

 


	6. "Blood and Bones"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I've been negligent in posting, but finals week is finally over, so I'll hopefully get some more content out! :) Enjoy! 
> 
> (This is also kind of a gorey, horrifying chapter. Proceed with caution).

Seagulls shrieked high overhead as the hollow unruly cadence of harbor buoys echoed amidst the shallow, rocky waters. 

Garbage littered the shorelines, seaweed and fishing nets entangling the rubbish to the point of being a permanent edition to the sidelines. A small group of children began clambering down the rocky edges towards the shore, hoping to find washed up toys or other small trinkets amidst the brown, murky water.

“Hey, guys! Come over here!” A little girl hollered from somewhere near the edge of the harbor. The various children, none of which having entered into the teenage years, all charged towards where the young girl in the dirty pink hoodie had called from. 

She stood at the top of the rocky edge, her finger pointed down towards the water’s edge. Her breathing was hollow and uneven as if she’d been running. Her little plastic bucket was barely full with a dozen or so snail-shells.

“There’s a lady down there.” She whispered. 

“Haha, Maggie, that’s impossible.” One of the taller boys guffawed, crossing his arms boastfully over his chest. 

“No! No!” The small girl pleaded, her dirty-blonde hair billowing messily around her dusty freckled cheeks. “She’s caught in the netting. Maybe she’s a mermaid?” She asked in a tone that could only be described as pure, unadulterated innocence. The boys of the group let out groans of complete disgust at the all-too-eager girl’s immature excitement. Mermaids didn’t exist! 

“Uh, guys?” One of the boys inquired rhetorically, peering over the edge with a horrified expression on his face. “There _ is  _ a girl down there… and she’s bleeding really bad.” 

All at once the small children accumulated to the edge of the rocks, each one letting out noises of horror as the scrawny, pale woman with orange hair feebly attempted to escape from her roped imprisonment. 

“I’ll get my mommy!” The girl named Maggie cried out as she raced off before anyone could dissuade her. The eldest of the group, a chubby boy with a bad sunburn painting the tops of his cheeks, nose, and forehead, neared the rocky edge to scrutinize the broken figure below. He glowered down at the scrawny figure’s struggle, similarly to how someone might watch a wild animal having been caught in a trap. Either he was contemplating just how easy it’d be to silence the creature forever, or how complicated it might be to try and save her. 

“Let’s go, come on! I wanna see the mermaid!” One of the other girls commanded before climbing down towards the woman, the rocks giving every now and again as she slowly eased herself down. As soon as she got to the netting, her tiny fingers began to pull apart the debris already having accumulated. It’s a wonder that Maggie had seen the woman, as almost her entire torso and limbs were covered in the plethora of washed-in garbage. 

As soon as the smaller girl had begun to move the shredded chunks of cardboard, branches, and the stiff rubber shards of tires and shoes, she let out a gasp. 

“Her head’s all cut up!” 

That was enough for the boys, who all joined their friend in attempting to free the decrepit woman.

"I told you she was bleeding!" The boy having spoken up earlier exclaimed. 

Maggie returned, along with a bedraggled mother who appeared to barely be aware of where she was. 

“And she’s got orange hair, and she’s bleeding a lot-- she’s really skinny too!--” Maggie attempted to explain between exhausted gasps as she charged behind her mother who seemed to be unbelieving of her daughter's claims in regards to a 'Mermaid'.

Her demeanor instantly changed upon seeing the children clustered around the matted, bloody figure laying dormant against the muddy garbage. 

“Oh my god-- Guys! Come get away from it! Come on, now!” The mother cried while fumbling for her phone to call the police. 

From first glances, the woman wound into the nets seemed dead, her figure far too bent out of joint due to the tumultuous storm Gotham had fought through the night before. Scrawny wasn’t nearly the word that could effectively describe the drowned woman’s current state of being; she looked as though she’d never known a full meal before.    

The Gotham Police department was connected, and as the young mother, crowded by the curious, muddy adolescence, began to explain the situation to the operator. As she’d gotten to the part of the drowned woman obviously being deceased, her alabaster, clawlike hand abruptly jerked forward and grasped one of the erected rocks. With a clear amount of fatigue and pain, the bedraggled girl, while still imprisoned by the fishing nets, attempted to climb nearer towards the shore (Her midsection and beyond being entirely submerged by the filthy ocean water).  As she lifted her head, blood began to dredge down the side of her face from where the more prominent surgical scar had been ripped open due to the violence she’d undergone the night before at the hand of the ocean’s stormy current. 

Yet she was unable to move, the nets holding her back like roots. 

“Don’t worry, we’ll get you out of there!” The woman atop the rockpile exclaimed between talking to the Police operator. After a moment the woman did, finally, begin to make her way down towards the prisoner, daintily attempting to pick apart the nets entangled around beyond comprehension. 

Sirens could be heard in the distance, causing the youthful audience to begin to shout and wave in hopes of alerting the Police towards that particular section. 

“Do you know where you are?” The woman asked breathlessly as she freed various smaller parts of the scrawny girl. 

Jinxx didn’t respond, her eyes sealed shut and swollen, right along with the rest of her face. The only thing that truly gave the young mother hope was the slight, restrained movements of the washed up girl attempting to find a handhold amid the loose stones surrounding her. 

The GCPD engulfed the area, bringing along knives and electric tools to free the nameless woman before she ended up dying. 

That was when disaster struck.

After the netting had finally come loose, and Jinxx could sit up without anything holding her down, there was a moment of silence. Against all odds, the now freed woman, using her elbows to lift herself up to a sitting position, her feet and legs wrinkly from the duration they’d remained in the water. 

“Easy-- You hit your head.” One of the officers exclaimed anxiously as a cloth pressed gently against the shaved portion of her head, where the laceration had been reopened. “Oh god… what happened to you…?” The officer inquired out of aghast horror, supposedly when he’d seen the various other surgical scars which ran along every inch of exposed flesh. 

Unfortunately, that would be his last words, as Jinxx sprung into a frenzy the likes of which few had seen. Using their relaxed demeanor, she immediately grabbed one by the shoulder and kicked the inside of his knee in until he fell over, splitting his head against a sharpened rock. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing--!” An officer demanded as his hand went towards his belt. He was too late, though, as Jinxx lunged forward and used her forearms to knock his head to the side before sending a knee deep against his ribs. A defiant crack could be heard as the guard let out a groan of agony before doubling over. Jinxx was able to nab the gun, load it, and send two bullets into the head of the next approaching cops who then fell to the rocky grounds, their blood mingling with the muddy waters flowing along.

Laughing hysterically, Jinxx embedded her bare foot against the man’s head which’d just been bludgeoned by the sharpened stone. Simply for the joy of it, she thought with a wide, maniacal smile as his head was now deformed beyond recognition, brain matter now combining with the blood already present. 

The children’s screams above were evident as the mother of one of the smallest girls commanded that the younger children run to their nearby home. Despite Jinxx having a limp due to a sprained knee and twisted ankle, she still made it up the rocky slope in record time. The gun was then pointed towards the mother as she held up her hands in surrender. Tears spilled over the woman’s eyes as her stammering pleads resonated from her quivering lips. 

“Have mercy-- P-p-p-please! No one will know y-you’re here, please--!” 

The bullet was embedded into her cheek, causing more crimson to spill. She fell to the ground, silent, as Jinxx slowly approached, dragging her abused leg slightly as she stood over the dead woman.

“Thanks for helping me out, by the way, you’re a real friend,” Jinxx whispered before bending down and giving the woman an overzealous kiss on her unmarred cheek. Stepping over the body, Jinxx suddenly felt a sharp pain in her shoulder and her neck. Her vision was distorted as she slowly turned around. 

She’d been tranquilized, the reinforcement guards having arrived to eliminate a dangerous criminal having begun wreaking havoc. 

A soft cackle hissed from her dry, cracked lips before she fell.

But she didn’t fall unconscious. 

Despite her limbs having seized entirely, her eyes still darted around madly, the Glasgow smile still on her face.

“What the fuck.... She’s not down! What the hell!”

“Get her to Arkham; they’ll figure her problem out.” Another voice resounded from somewhere. 

One moment, Jinxx could feel everything around her; from the concrete street digging into her back to the outline of the gun still clenched in her palm. But then, her nerves succumbed to the effects of the tranquilizer and caused her entire body to feel horrifically tingly. At this point, she almost wished she was still able to sleep so she could escape the extreme discomfort rippling through.   

Ah well, nothing to do but wait until the effects wore off, she mused as her brain rolled in and out of awareness and numbness.


	7. "The Pistol, The Poison..?"

One final nurse remained at the patient’s side, her tanned flesh concealed behind the white medical smock. With her hair tied up in a clean, ebony knot at the top of her head, the woman seemed to almost be a photoshopped detail in this plaster backdrop. Jinxx admired her in the dreary state she was imprisoned in.   

The younger nurse (An assistant, Jinxx guessed), had made no effort to move the bedraggled patient. Instead, she appeared to be staring out of morbid curiosity at the scrawny weakling having the capabilities to murder a plethora of witnesses and police officers who'd only tried to help. 

With a groggy rasp accenting her speech, Jinxx opened her mouth, her snakelike grimace attached together by tendrils of stale mucus. 

“It’s rude to stare.” She whispered, her dried, peeling lips barely open a crevice as she blinked a few times to rid her vision of its blurriness. 

The Nurse jumped back, her hand pressed to her chest in surprise. Jinxx’s gaze followed her until the girl had run out, sputtering out a plethora of different codes into her headset before slamming the door shut with a mighty crash.   

Jinxx didn’t waste a second. 

Without another thought or comment, the orange-haired girl quickly began to twist and contort her hands and wrists, attempting to weaken the metal of the handcuffs before pulling them free. Within moments, and with minimal damage to the lowermost joints of her thumb, she managed to pull away, her hollow eyes quickly scrutinizing the tiny room she’d been left in. The door would be simple enough to break out of, as it appeared to only be locked with a simple latch. However, it’d be a challenge to get out of the rest of the security methods exercised within this institution; that much was an understatement.  

With her mismatched eyes, she glanced around the tiny bathroom-sized chamber she’d been left behind in, noting the aged security camera attached to the corner of the wall as a tiny pinprick of crimson light beamed in a sluggish cadence every few seconds. There also was a rusted vent which filtered in a sluggish breath of dusty air every now and again and had clearly not been cleaned if months, at the very least. There’d be no chance that Jinxx could escape through the vent, however, as it was about the exact girth of her forearm in size and shape. Never mind the fact that it was bolted to the wall and then reinforced with what appeared to be cement glue. It was obvious that there was more than one instance of attempted escape through the ventilation system by inmates prior to her. 

No roommates, no furniture (Aside from the creaking, iron bed and the stone-aged camera watching her every move), no windows; How cozy. 

How in the hell was she supposed to take a piss? She didn’t even have a bucket! 

The only conclusion she could come to was that in this Asylum, of sorts, she was less than human, and therefore would be treated as such. If she needed to shit, she’d shit the bed, the same would be said for piss and vomit if the need arose.

Well then, if she was going to amount to nothing less than an animal, then by god, she wouldn’t disappoint their standards. 

As the hazy red light droned lazily on, Jinxx set to clambering up the wall in an attempt to reach the wired security system. Surprising even herself, it didn’t take long to get to that very corner of the room, using only her flexibility and strength to her advantage (Using the bedframe as a foothold would’ve most likely been an effective aid, but would’ve been anticlimactic even by her standards.).

Her head emerged into the view of the camera’s lens before she let out a high-pitched, maniacal cackle, hoping against hope that there was a sound system within the technology. She had a message to her captors.   

“Good day to you, medical staff! I am Jinxx, your humble servant. If you ever hope to keep me contained, you’re gonna have to try harder~!” She sang the last sentence in a jesting, pitch. 

With the final word just barely having the time to escape her dry, bloodied lips, she tore the camera right out of the wall, taking with it, an array of plaster-bits, and wires, which spilled from the hole in a puff of alabaster dust.

The camera fell with a metallic bang before Jinxx could grab it once more. She let out a victorious laugh upon seeing that the red light no longer shone and that there was a bright fizzle of sparks still resounding from the prior location of the now damaged machinery.

An alarm sounded from somewhere, echoing in a tune of unnerving evenness. Jinxx was on a timer, now: a timer that would be unforgiving if she were to overlap its duration.

Her rat-like fingers began to ravage the surveillance camera, tearing away the broken fragments in order to reach the mechanics, and inevitably, the sharper appendages. 

Eventually, she happened on the circuit board which had been snapped at one side and was about the size of a credit card. The razor sharp edge created a rather impressively sharp substitute-knife, which Jinxx knew would more than come in handy very soon.

As the alarm continued to resound through the vacant plaster hallways, Jinxx pressed her face very close to the latch of the door and quickly set to coercing the latch open with the circuit board. 

“Come on.” She rasped through gritted teeth, urging the aged metal to appeal to her demands. 

Finally, a pitched wheeze of the metal grating against itself confirmed for Jinxx the success of her ministrations against the lock, and the door groaned open. 

A cacophony of voices resounded at the sound of her prison being evaded, which caused the young Jinxx to stop. 

Yes, stop. 

But don’t be fooled; there was a part of her who wanted to flee from the present danger. Yet there resided another part with a more carnal intent. This was what manipulated her into facing her captors dead on, rather than scampering away like the beast they believed her to be. 

Sure enough, not a minute passed by when three or four wardens abruptly rounded the corner into the hallway where Jinxx stood. She glared at them, her eyes dancing with a fire Dr. Saarne had initiated. This was his doing, therefore she was as guiltless as a mistreated dog acting on instinct. Violence was all she knew, therefore mercy was about as probable as the moon falling out of the sky. 

“Take it easy, we’re here to take care of you…” One of the doctors murmured behind the paper mask. His intent appeared meaningful, but the drone of his voice was proof that this was something he said remarkably often to his patient’s. Jinxx would not bend to his will as easily as they might’ve. 

Two of the guards slowly began to approach Jinxx, as though she were vermin being backed into a corner. That’s when she lunged, and it was alarming enough that the witnesses had no idea how to react.

Within moments, Jinxx had bled both of the blue-uniformed men, their copper blood now staining the off-white linoleum of the floor. The circuit-board-knife, regrettably, was embedded into the second guard’s throat, and too slippery to get a good grip on. Now she fought with the blunt force of her limbs, dislocating the jaw of the warden who’d spoken earlier, and twisting the neck of the other until a deep grinding noise followed by a ‘pop’ was heard. The man went limp, his eyes wide and darting about the chosen arena of this specific battle. 

The final doctor remained calm and reserved, watching the chaos as though it weren’t actually happening. 

If Jinxx had known who this man was, and the relationship he secretly harbored with Dr. Saarne, she would’ve ended his life sooner than she’d done so to the guards. But with his stance simply composed and unremarkable, she halted her attack.

“Aren’t you scared?” She inquired as the ghost of a laugh resounded through gritted teeth. Already she looked insane, but it was more than certain that she was slowly allowing the atmosphere of Arkham Asylum to take its toll on her subconscious. Dr. Strange gave the girl a courteous smile of-- was it praise? No, admiration. 

“Very good, I’m impressed that you were able to use the robotics of the security camera at your disposal. Not many in my care have ever attempted that.” 

Jinxx said nothing, her stance unimpressionable as she slowly attempted to read the Head of Arkham while also concealing her own inhibition. This was something she was unfamiliar with; actually having a conversation with one of the enemy; one of the men who’d put her in captivity. 

“I must ask, however.” He continued, his eyes dancing behind the glint of his reading glasses. 

“What..?” She retorted, impatience lacing her tone. 

“Why is it you hadn’t used the springs of the mattress or bed frame to open the door? I think that would’ve been easier than smashing the camera, don’t you?”   

Jinxx didn’t care to admit it, but he was right; deconstructing the mattress itself  _ would _ have been the simpler means of attempted escape. 

But there wasn’t a single chance in hell that she would confirm his inquiry. 

“I don’t like being watched. Simple as that. Now, would you like to move out of the way? Or do I have to tear your arms off?” she growled, her eyes wide as she attempted to harness the mania crawling through her every vein. 

“Oh, by all means, go, but I just want to make sure that you’re aware--...” 

“‘Aware’ of what?” Jinxx snapped back, her sharpened, uneven nails raking along the wall as she awaited the Doctor’s statement. 

“You’re bleeding. One of the wardens must’ve got you with our enhanced anesthesia. It should react within the hour, so you’d better get going before it takes full effect. 

Jinxx laughed, but then noted the tiny stream of blood currently trickling down her outer left calf. It didn’t appear to be a bug bite, or anything of that manner. Unfortunately, it seemed that she had, in fact, been stopped. 

Her lip curled into a disdainful smile. 

“You’re forgetting something, doctor.” 

She pushed him back, hearing a grunt echo from his lips upon impact. 

“I’m an insomniac, no matter what you do, I can’t sleep--.” 

She was still aware, her eyes wide as saucers, but her body was almost completely paralyzed. She couldn’t even wiggle a finger, much less attempt to get back up. 

“Security, take Patient Codename: Jinxx, to Solitary Confinement at my location.” 

A beeping resounded as confirmation from somewhere far off, and Dr. Strange appeared satisfied. 

He stood over Jinxx like a pillar, his once short stature now practically tripling due to her collapsed state. 

“You’ll be mobile again in another two hours, or so. I had my chemists whip up this batch just this morning. Under most circumstances, it would kill a normal patient, but for you, it puts into a state of paralysis. We’ve yet to study what the long-term effects are after the primary symptoms have completed, so we’re hoping you’ll relay us any sort of alterations in your daily routine so that we might better study this formula for our records.” 

As he spoke, a pair of beefy, overweight security officers scooped up Jinxx’s fallen figure and proceeded to drag her to where Solitary was located. If Jinxx could move but one piece of her body, it’d be to flip the smug doctor off. 

He would most certainly be her next victim for this outrage.   


	8. "... The Noose, Or The Knife?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (UPDATE 9/4/17)  
> Ending of this chapter has been edited a bit since I didn't really like how it concluded

Solitary Confinement had been rather drab as of late.

Rarely would any of the newer recruits ever trespass down into the empty lower levels after the experience with Harley Quinn attempting to break in and free her otherwise detained boyfriend. That had been weeks ago, and Joker was bored of all the seasoned guards who wouldn’t even offer up a laugh at the well-constructed jokes he'd conjured. They simply treated him like a spoiled toddler; offering up no rhyme or reason behind their actions as they ensured that he hadn’t blocked the septic system (again) and that he had enough to sustain him for another dozen or so hours. He was becoming quite scrawny, at this rate, to the point of The Bat, himself, commenting that their methods of incarceration were nothing short of medieval torture for his long-time foe. Hugo's only response was: “You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him drink.”

So it came as a surprising turn of events when the darkened hall roared to life with the sound of the double doors opening, and the even, heavy footsteps of the guards now noisily reverberating throughout the typically silent realm.

Joker had been sitting in the corner of his dimly lit cell, carefully gnawing at the unkempt, yellow nail of his thumb. He straightened at the magnified noise, his hazel eyes peering avidly through the meal-slot of his door (which the guards habitually left open, giving The Joker the slightest glimpse of freedom which was far too small for him to even attempt to pursue. It was a petty move, on their part, their attempts at tormenting their prisoner all the more through the maddeningly small glimpse into the world. At least a slight draft which would wisp through said slot every now and again when the air-vents had their weekly cycle.).

Joker closed his eyes and quickly deduced that there were four of them approaching the Confinement cells, each footstep synchronized in an attempt to confuse the sole inhabitant. They were dragging someone, or something, between them. For a moment he wondered if this would finally be the day he would be executed for his crimes against Gotham City. He’d been on death-row for well over twenty years (he lost track after a decade, so this was merely an assumption on his part). This would be entertaining, to say the least.

The footfalls grew louder and louder against the linoleum floors, before ultimately passing the psychotic criminal’s cell. It wasn’t long after that, that an adjacent door was unceremoniously thrown open with an unholy shriek of the aged hinges.

So, it seemed that Joker would be getting a new neighbor. An almost eager smile flitted across his dry, red-painted lips.

“Marc, Ronald, Steve, and Chris… My most wonderful friends. How kind of you to visit me.”

Through the food-slot, he could see the guards visibly shudder at the unnervingly relaxed tone in the prisoner’s comments. Joker fed off their fear with as much vigor as when he heard the pained laughter from his recently gassed victims.

All of their backs were towards the Clown, two of them having disappeared into the adjacent cell. Joker could hear an animalistic snarling from the other chamber and briefly wondered if Killer Croc had finally made his way to Joker’s level of crime rather than the simple vandalism he typically was associated with.

‘Atta boy, Croc’, Joker thought with a hint of fatherly pride.

No; it wasn’t The Croc.

That was made only too clear when the audibly painful snap of an electrical charge resounded from the other cell, and a feminine shriek of pain echoed through the steel-plated halls.  

Had they finally captured Harley?

No, it wasn’t his ditzy Harlequin, as this woman was much more violent than Harley could ever bring herself to be; and that's saying a lot since Joker could recite numerous times where she’d acted more unhinged and bloodthirsty than he’d ever. Joker’s intrigue only piqued more when he realized he couldn’t recognize the unbridled shrieks and curses as being from one of the regular baddies of Gotham. Finally, some fresh meat for Gothams goodie-two-shoes’ cops to get their claws into.

However, from the unruly chaos resounding from the adjacent cell, it didn’t appear that the GCPD would be able to get anywhere near the mysterious fighter.

An uproarious thud signaled the steel-reinforced door having been thrown closed and inevitably sealed. Joker continued to listen as the woman cursed and carried on behind her cell. It was a miracle she hadn’t been confused for a rabid animal at this rate as she was downright insane!

The guards left one by one, two of them dragging an inevitably damaged leg like a sack behind them, while various moans of pain echoed throughout. The glimpse of what Joker could see was downright astounding.

Blood was seeping from everywhere and nowhere at the same time as if they’d raided a blood-bank and were now leaving behind the aftermath of their invasion.

Joker’s eyes danced gleefully at the gory sight, his tongue darting out to lick his thin, chapped lips.

The sight of such carnage was almost like Christmas to the deprived Clown Prince after so long of being left to rot in the Asylum’s lowermost prisons.  Yet what surprised him more was the seemingly foreign feeling of an erection steadily growing beneath the Arkham jumpsuit he wore.

It’d been so long since he’d felt any sort of pleasure within the plaster and steel cage he resided in, that by simply palming the still-clothed appendage between his legs, his breath hitched and his nerves tingled, his entire gait practically vibrating with the unbridled anticipation. The intense sensitivity having accumulated after so many long months without stimulation was what nearly sent him reeling with the sudden onslaught of approaching orgasm.  It didn’t take long for him to finish in the furthest corner of his cell, where a spider-web had long ago been constructed. It was a brief amusement, watching the spider attempt to eradicate what had damaged her nest, before also succumbing to the rivulets of sperm now accumulated on the floor in a smelly puddle.

A wracked gasp as forced between his signature Glasgow lips as he worked to recover from the brief excursion. To think that a few smears of blood and moans of pain would ultimately resurrect The Joker’s typically dormant appendage, and have it suddenly be hot and livid with renewed vigor. He longed for his little Harlequin, for despite her idiotic disposition, she would do anything for him when the time came to christen the young former-psychiatrist with the blessing of his seed inside of her.

But now came the issue of the girl across from his cell, who at this point in time, had not been as active as before.

His highly sensitive hearing, which’d long ago become accustomed to the sound of his own blood rushing through his veins, could clearly detect the rhythmic huff of her breath as she apparently was meditating and/or recovering from the lost battle.  

He was curious to know who the woman was, and in his mental construct of her, began envisioning her as a Harley-Doppelganger; similar in overall construct and personality, but the other woman perhaps having a mop of brown hair instead of blonde, and green eyes instead of blue.

Eventually, the cadence was almost… calming; enough so that the Joker was soon able to doze off to the rhythmic, hollow rasps.

And against all odds, mere hours after the first release, his member once more began to stiffen with the visions of fucking the strange girl while Harley was otherwise detained.

After all, his delusional side-kick deserved what heartbreak she got for abandoning him to rot in Solitary. 

This time, with an almost aged grace about him, he loosened the stiff jumpsuit until his off-white cock was exposed to the fluorescent lighting. Precum dripped from the tip in three minuscule beads down the shaft. It spasmed a few times at the sudden exposure before Joker set about finishing himself again. 

 

****

 

Jinxx was beyond herself with fury, the airless room within solitary providing even less than the room she’d been confined to earlier. The only relief was that there wasn’t a camera, vent, or even a bed to be found. Rather, the walls and floor were covered in a burlap-like fabric and evidently stuffed with dried grass. The texture alone gave Jinxx a rash wherever and however she laid down, so she finally decided to unlace her Asylum gown, spread it out along the floor like a sheet, and lay on that instead. It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough.

Thankfully there weren’t any cameras or other inmates to spy on her nakedness, as now Jinxx could finally feel at peace.

Actually, not peace.

In her mind-- in the mind of an Insomniac-- there was no peace.

It was as if a constant war was unfolding in her mind, each detail pristinely amplified so that there was not even a split-second to debate one, single moment without a thousand others also requiring her devotion. It was maddening, and occasionally, so powerful, that it would cause her to have audible and visual hallucinations (unbeknownst to her at the times of each event).

That had been among the few newer side-effects of the complete denial of sleep she’d been forced to observe.  The surgical experimentation taking up residence near where her cerebellum had been was what primarily triggered the madness behind her inability to die due to the chronic sleep impediment.

Lord knew that she’d wanted to die ever since she’d awoke prematurely during the surgery that had spelled out her fate thereafter. Now she was haplessly puppeteered by the mania having been triggered by such unholy circumstances and would continue to be so subjugated until a bullet would ultimately conclude her miserable life.

Unfortunately for Jinxx, she was no longer, by psychological standards, a human. Never again would she be capable of making her own choices or even be her own person. Dr. Saarne had ensured that after he’d so willingly stolen the very humanity from her. and in return, had rendered her into a creature the likes of which should never have been created.

 She was a machine. The ruthless, devoid result of the curiosity of a sadistic creature in a bloodstained lab coat.

“Howdy, neighbor!” A pitched raspy voice resounded from somewhere afar. Jinxx’s mismatched eyes flew open from the meditative state she’d been waiting patiently in. For a moment she wondered if it was another inanimate voice attempting to confuse her, but then a high pitched ‘Yoo-hoo’ confirmed that it was not a hallucination and that there was someone genuinely trying to get her attention.

“Who’s there.” She growled, her thin lips curling back to observe an almost feral appearance.

It was loud enough for him to hear, that much she knew. So why didn’t he answer?

She’d wondered too soon,  as the uncomfortable amount of time separating the inquiry from the answer suddenly was concluded with the raspy voice once more echoing from the opposite doorway.  

“Just another broken soul lingering in a world that is... _unaccepting_ of my talents.”

Now that statement piqued her interest, though she still hadn’t made any effort to move from the exact center of the room she’d been left in.

“Oh, yeah?” She inquired in a tone of disinterest, though she wanted to know what had to have occurred for their fates to be shared.  

“Mhmm, trust me, you’re among the few who’ve managed to earn a sentence down here alongside me. You’ll notice that there are a great many cells; most of them are filled… with the bodies of the deceased. You’re lucky, the last guy, a fellow by the name of--,” He paused, a soft humming of his throat declaring his contemplation before a pitched laugh filled the silence. “Oh, I forgot, and I don’t care too much for names anyway. What happens, though, to our dearest ‘No-Name’, is he happened on the former cell of an ass by the name of Nightcrawler. The idiot had been dead for weeks, and he was really starting to smell. Cannot confirm or deny, but I’m pretty sure ol’ ‘No-Name’ ate the corpse and then eventually died from eating the rotted flesh. That’s the thing about Solitary Confinement, the days seem to be getting longer only because the guards eventually forget to feed you on a regular basis. It’s a good thing you’re here now.” The other inmate gave a wheezing chuckle at his own morbid joke.

Jinxx let a smirk sneak across her lips, her eyes dancing mischievously as she envisioned just how horrifying it would be to find a dead body in the cell you were forced into, only to devour the corpse in all of its rotten glory.

It sounded so positively wretched.   

“But tell me, kiddo; whatcha do to get yourself fucked over this badly?”

The other prisoner's voice became more clear, which meant that he was close to the door, and possibly attempting to gander at her while she sat on the ground in all of her glory. It wasn’t that she was expecting any different, after all, since men rarely thought with anything above the waist. And besides, there were worse things in life than being voyeuristically stalked. At least the air was comfortably cool and Jinxx didn’t need to worry about freezing to death or boiling from an overzealous thermostat.

“I am a subject of study, I am nothing more than a machine of war and violence--.”

“Alright-alright, I hate long, drawn-out monologues, just skip to your so-called ‘Grand Master Plan’.” The other inmate snarled, the former glamor and chipper attitude now abruptly depleted. If Jinxx’s mind wasn’t constantly in the moment, which therefore left little or nothing to surprise, she might’ve been a little taken aback at the abrupt contrast of tone.

Rather, she could only allow the ghost of a smile to surpass her lips.

“They call me Jinxx.”

“‘Jinxx’...” He mused in a tone which was positively dripping with malicious intent. “It has so much mystery to it.”

The tone he used only became more and more sinister, clearly personifying what ominous intents he might’ve been contemplating. 

“I reckon you need to tell me your name, now.” She replied as she proceeded to clamber along the fibrous walls supposedly intended for her safety. It felt good to be able to stretch her legs and arms so far without the aggravation of touching the opposite wall.

However, the green-haired inmate was dumbfounded. Wasn’t he the famed Clown-Prince of Crime? Did his reputation not speak for itself in not only the lawless circles but also the law enforcement circles worldwide? Even the Amish probably knew about his schemes, however limited their understanding might’ve been. After all, it’d be like telling a Hobo you’ve raided a nearby house; it had little to no effect on the hobo, himself, which then would eliminate the true significance of the crime-tale being told. 

Recovering quickly from the briefest of shocks, Joker lounged against the pillow-laden wall, his stained lips curling upwards into his signature grin/grimace. 

“I’m not something that can be described… simply.” He began, causing a frustrated groan to resonate from the opposing cell. “But I suppose I can tell you when you get us out of here.” 

“And what makes you think I’m gonna try to get your sorry ass out if I get the chance to?” 

“Because I--.” 

The doors were abruptly thrown open with an ear-splitting shriek, which caused even Joker to cover his ears in surprise. 

A figure clad all in black stormed into the corridor, his shoulders adorned with a full mesh cape which billowed behind him. Joker sneered at his long-time nemesis, but The Batman didn’t have eyes for the troublesome foe. Rather, he’d been notified of the new arrival within Arkham; having been found without any sort of identification or recognizable DNA. Joker peered out into the aisle but couldn’t figure out what was going on until Bat’s little gremlin had stepped aside. Upon the slightest glimpse that Joker had caught of the girl, he was almost shocked to see that she was completely naked, an unruly mane of coppery hair billowing behind her as she brushed it over her shoulders.  

 


	9. "Insomniaxx Born"

“Are you sure you don’t want a robe or something to cover you?” The younger teen inquired, having introduced himself as 'Nightwing' while his burly companion had left to speak to the attendees. 

Jinxx sat in a way which allowed her curves to be in full show, yet her back to be as rigid as a flagpole. It was obvious she was struggling to keep her composure calm and negotiable while her mind swam with the thousands of unyielding thoughts swimming through the torrents of her mind. 

After all, as the note had said, ‘If she wanted to be remedied of her permanent insomnia, she would be respectful and informative, which in turn would allow them to help her’.  Jinxx would do her best, of course, to earn the trust of her captors, but nothing more than that.  She’d made up her mind to kill the foolish Asylum staff in the end if they were unable to return her to her former self. 

“No.” She replied to the fidgeting young lad who’d been doing everything he could to keep his eyes averted from the naked woman.  Jinxx wasn’t afraid of nudity, in fact, she enjoyed how bashful everyone got around her when she was undressed, even her sworn enemies who were intent on her termination would abruptly throw themselves back to avoid any unintentional grope. Her reputation preceded her in the extreme, as it were.

They feared her, and that was exactly what she wanted. 

A few seconds ticked by on the aged clock which hung over the door before the shrouded man unlocked the sealed door and allowed himself in. His eyes were pitiless and hollow beneath the mask which concealed a majority of his features, his overall frame undeniably strong in comparison to what Jinxx was capable of handling. 

“We’re just going to ask you a few questions, but first--,” The Batman stated in a deep, neutral tone. That’s when another indistinguishable band of Asylum doctors approached, carrying between them a computer along with a dozen wires, or so. Jinxx watched them like a lion would a gazelle, her eyes silently warning them against touching her without her consent.  They seemed to take the hint, each one handing the wires around to the other associates as though it were a game of 'Hot Potato'. None wanted to be the one standing nearest to the unpredictable and dangerous creature sitting before them. That was, until a smaller, seemingly apprentice-level doctor approached, his blue eyes fixated on her mismatched ones as he gave her a courteous smile. 

“Would you mind if we had a few tests done before your questioning?” The man asked, his voice gentlemanly and kind, and quite unlike what Jinxx was used to. 

Her eyes widened at the suddenly compassionate demeanor presented to her that confusion quickly took over, and gave way to suspicion and cynicism. 

“And who’s askin’?” She asked in a gruff gangster-tone, her arms crossing over her chest to salvage what modesty she’d lacked since her arrival.   

“My name is Christopher Kellend; I’ll be your new Therapist when you start your treatment.” 

“Ah,” Jinxx mused, “I haven’t got one of those before.”

The man known as Christopher gave a small smile before Jinxx finally allowed her arms to fall slack at her sides, forearms facing up. All part of the plan. 

The plethora of doctors approached the girl and began distributing a variety of multicolored wires and tubes along her fingertips, her ribs, and even, her forehead. 

Some doctors examined the side of her head where the surgery had taken place, announcing the various underpinnings of the botched surgery, and healing having taken place to another doctor busily scrawling everything out on a clipboard filled with paper. Jinxx felt quite exposed as the various onlookers watched the session with reluctant intrigue. 

Jinxx felt quite exposed as the various onlookers watched the session with reluctant intrigue. 

That’s when a nurse let out a startled yelp, her eyes wide as she turned to one of the other doctors. “She doesn’t have a heartbeat.” 

“Impossible, perhaps you’re looking in the wrong area?” 

The Nurse, at first, was obviously prepared to object, but finally thought better of it before she roughly handed the aged male her stethoscope.  He begrudgingly pressed the bell of the stethoscope flat against Jinxx’s ribcage, causing the young patient to shiver involuntarily at the cold press of metal. 

The man adjusted the round, flat metal against her chest a few times, before grumbling something incoherent and trying again, and again, and again. 

Finally, with an enraged yowl, he ripped the stethoscope from his ears before tossing it across the room in a fit of rage, long having forgotten that it had been a borrowed piece of equipment which would later need replacing. 

“Stupid corporate-distributed piece of GARBAGE!” He slurred, the remainder of any scandalous accusations hardly legible. “Can’t even find a goddamn HEARTBEAT--,”

“Sir,” Another announced, standing at the computer having been brought into the room. “Her heart cavity is empty, but there’s something there...” 

The aged doctor shoved the younger one aside before scrutinizing the data having been collected on the screen. 

Sure enough, no heartbeat was present, and all the staff members were astonished at that established fact. 

There was, however, a wide array of peculiar scuffles happening exactly where her heart would’ve been. 

“She must’ve been chipped.” The aged doctor announced. 

“‘Chipped?’ But, sir, we are eons from discovering the means for a human to exist with only a chip functioning in place of a heart. The expenses, the-the research, the--.” 

The head Doctor glared at his colleague, “Don’t delude yourself into thinking that only Gotham’s medical research is the best of it’s kind because it's depicted as such all over the media. No. There are undocumented research labs all over the world, and for all we know, they might’ve been silently advancing at a rate much faster than ours.”

Silence filled the room at the grim statement, which was when Christopher approached Jinxx carefully.  

“Were you aware that you don’t have a heart?” His eyes studied her stony features. 

Jinxx gave a casual shrug, completely unconcerned with the newfound information she’d been given.  If she had a heart or didn’t, none of it really mattered. For all she knew, she might not even have an internal anatomy but instead was a walking pile of muscle and bones. Nothing surprised her anymore, and by the sadistic methods her surgeon had exhibited, it was a wonder that she was still alive.

Now, to the world, she was proof of the resilience of man; able to overcome horrific odds despite the exceptionally high chances of death awaiting her at any time.

Finally, with a last collective discussion from the doctors, they carefully tugged the wires from the girl, claiming that they would have her room set up with all the necessary equipment to continue on with her preparations. 

“For… surgery to solve… not sleeping, yeah?” She inquired, but the doctors had left her behind in their conversations, having moved on to other matters throughout the Hospital she’d been dragged to. The cloaked figure had been watching the elaborate performance the entire time in complete silence, so when he cleared his throat to get her attention, she was immediately brought into a new sense of… was it hope? 

Someone had been listening to her. 

“Who did this to you?” The man inquired, his eyes glinting empathetically from beneath the mask’s heavy brows.  

“I don’t remember,” Jinxx replied. And that was the truth; she’d all but forgotten even what’d put her in the slammer, and only remembered a few snapshots of the event itself. 

A lot of blood. 

“We can’t hope to bring your assailant to justice unless you give us whatever information you know.” Now, he sounded mildly frustrated. 

“And I’m telling you,” She retorted, the eerie sight of her mismatched eyes giving her a look of deeply-rooted insanity. “I. Don’t. Know.” 

“Can you recall anything about the people who did this? Think really hard, any slight memory could be the key to finding the man who did it.” 

“It was obviously a professional surgeon; That’s what the Doctor’s were implying, at least.” Nightwing commented. 

Jinxx’s palm warily went up to the patch of bare skin on the side of her head, feeling the unnerving bumpy texture of the surgical scar having long ago healed. 

That’s when it hit her; a plethora of briefly flickering memories, each one depicted as either a vacant voice or the outlined high-contrast replay of an event. 

It was as though a storyboard had been lain out before her as she closed her eyes, struggling to focus on one particular depiction rather than every single one of them. Hallucinated whispers flickered against her ears, further delving her into the labyrinth of forcibly stolen memories. 

“They used… lightning bolts to… to take away my… days.” Jinxx opened her eyes, feeling victorious in her efforts to remember such traumatic events. 

The two men before her, however, didn’t seem to agree with her eagerness. 

“What does that mean?” 

Jinxx gave a shrug, nonchalantly brushing off the ominous tone of her companions as casually as could be described. 

“Can you give us any names? Something that we could track and pinpoint?” 

Jinxx’s features broke out into a wide smile as she started laughing. 

Laughing louder, and louder, and louder, until she was rocking in her chair as tears cascaded down her eyes. 

It was a typical event for the poor girl, the trauma of the surgery having inflicted her with a rare case of schizophrenia. Her moods would change like night and day,  and as frequently as and as though one person had left and another had arrived to take her place. And above all, once the attitude had changed, it was only a matter of time before the hard-drive of her subconscious would also reset, her memory permanently wiped. 

“I think we’re done here. Her Therapist will have to figure out what to do with her…” He looked over his shoulder to stare down at the young girl, his gaze never leaving her face. “... and her disease.” 

Jinxx’s back hit the edge of the chair hard as she sulked with a loud, dramatic huff. She was perfectly fine; it was them who were crooked.  They would see, she could be just like everyone else. ‘

“Hello, Miss Jins?” A polite tone resonated from the door followed by the soft, little knock of a feminine wrist. 

“Jinxx.” Was the naked girl’s reply as she stared at the door as it opened carefully. 

A woman, looking about the same age as she, approached from the door, her blue eyes radiating compassion and care. With her hair knotted into a tight bun, a few lengths of escaped locks hung on either side of her head. With the way they were positioned, it was almost obvious they were put there on purpose; possibly to hide something from immediate sight. 

“I’ll be taking you to Solitary. Good news though, tomorrow you’ll be moved to a comfier room, and soon, will get to meet other inmates!”   

Her overly-ecstatic persona was enough to put Jinxx on edge as the uniformed woman forcefully tugged the scrawnier girl onto a waiting wheelchair as if Jinxx had any way to defend herself if the need arose (She didn’t). 

Yet there was something about this transporter; something which set her apart from the regular nobodies frequenting the alabaster corridors. She might’ve been exceptionally petite, but had the strength of ten men hidden beneath her unassumingly scrawny arms. 

That’s when Jinxx saw it, while the attendant was bent over the armrests to secure a pair of Velcro cuffs on each before quickly latching around the patient’s wrists.

Like a beacon in the night, it shone out from the cluster of paper bracelets entwined haphazardously around the girl’s wrists; as if she’d been frantic to conceal the tattoo from sight but had rushed in her endeavors, which ultimately lead to this botched disguise. 

The black and red depiction of four playing-card diamonds, like the ones represented in a generic deck of cards, had been messily scrawled on the porcelain flesh, probably with a homemade tattoo needle, Jinxx guessed, due to the unruly linework and tissue scarring. It was old, possibly a regretted prison tattoo. The Insomniac didn’t think that Hospitals hired such unpredictable attendants, but then again, this was Arkham Asylum, and it would come as no surprise if criminals were given the rites to oversee other criminals.  

The wheelchair started off, and Jinxx barely felt as though she were moving at all as the linoleum floors glistened in all their waxy magnificence. The wheelchair’s squeak kept them both in the moment as Jinxx once more began to succumb to the hallucinations which came with the burden she’d been forced to carry. 

Both auditory and visual, the young girl with her flaming orange locks had long ago ceased to try differentiating between illusion and reality, having opted instead to trust her more carnal instincts to kill and silence whatever and whoever insisted on getting in her way. 

For the time being, and due to the agreement that she’d been presented with, Jinxx would bide her time, enduring each horrific mirage until the time came where their current advantage would be no more. 

Jinxx would kill again, this much was certain. 

But like a broken time-bomb, there were no guarantees what would happen, when, or even if. 

Little did she know, that the entire time she’d been guided down the various corridors, she’d been mumbling incoherently through a slackened mouth, her eyes glazed over and distant as drool frothed over her yellowing teeth.       


	10. "Never Let Me Sleep"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After far too long, my lovelies, the journey of Jinxx's origins has come to a close.   
> Don't fret, though, as you will see, I have plans to continue this legendary partnership between Jinxx and anyone else she feels will benefit her in the long-run. 
> 
> Thank you all who've been diligently following this story, I cling on to every viewing of this melancholy tale of this Insomniac with bright orange hair.

“Sweetheart~!” The youthful Therapist cooed as Jinxx stared off into the distance, her mismatched eyes reminding the newly-instated Psychologist of an illustration of the ‘Mad Hatter’ he’d once seen in his copy of ‘Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland’. 

He tried not to let her scare him, but there were times where a shiver would run up his spine in regards to her nonchalant composure and downright casual retelling of her convictions against society, as they were almost too wretched to be real. 

“Hm?” The girl replied airily, her hands folding neatly before her as she once more returned her gaze to the speaker watching her through his signature black-framed glasses.

“You were detailing to me what it was that the head doctor had said to you the last time you’d seen him.” 

One of the processes of rehabilitation which Jinxx had been painstakingly enduring, was to rediscover her real name from the ashes of her former life, alongside a plethora of other information that she couldn't pinpoint.  It was all a bunch of nonsense to her, anyway, so it wasn't like she actually knew what it was they wanted, although she guessed it was for their own personal gain, rather than to get her once more eligible for society.  That was always their promised intentions in the beginning,  after all, but there hasn't ever been a single inmate to have seen that promise concluded. 

A crime was a crime, a murder was a murder; no amount of therapy sessions and doctor's oaths would be able to alter or undo that one grueling understatement.

They’d not gotten nearly far enough in the young woman's almost daily research sessions, as she oftentimes would refuse to cooperate or yield to the constrictive rules of Arkham Asylum.  She despised being in the company of others who’d been deemed ‘Undesirable’ by the public, and especially hated their lazy attempts at passing off the slop they forced her to drink, as a nutritional, edible sustenance.  

Out of all the lies she'd been fed by the Asylum's higher-ups, this was among those that would result in the painful demise of many a warden (But not before they were given a taste of what they'd put her through.  After all, an eye for an eye).  Jinxx already knew from the beginning that the fatty broth each inmate was given to eat was not so that they would absorb all the vitamins and nutrition they were required in order to live a long and happy life, but rather instead to silence the aching of their bellies and eliminate the potential of an army of sustained of able-bodied Crimelords and thugs. Sickly and weak from the lack of required vitamins, the prisoners would more easily bend to the wills of their superiors, rather than not, which then would decrease the number of casualties which otherwise would manifest between warden and prisoner, or prisoner and prisoner. 

No forms of cutlery were allowed within the asylum since any sort of human-decency was forbidden in the eyes of the white-clothed wardens who frequented the dreary, maze-like corridors. On more than one occasion Jinxx, out of sheer boredom and spite, had upended the congealed broth over her gown, and would watch with mischievous glee as a warden would exasperatedly drag her into a lavatory to get changed into a clean set of clothes before having her confined to her non-solitary cell as ‘punishment’ for misbehaving during recreational hours.  That was alright, Jinxx loved being alone, and would rather be shot at point blank than spend any amount of time in the presence of the horrific number of self-proclaimed "Crime-Bosses". It was revolting how egotistical these goons could be, as they wouldn't be nearly half as famous if they didn't continue to receive checks from their estranged fathers' bank accounts, and later spend them on booze and fake playing cards.  

Jinxx had made a point of telling a number of such idiots her opinions of them, which ultimately resulted in her earning quite the name for herself when they would attempt to defend their honor, and later need to be sent to the ICU wing of Arkham, their faces beaten to a bloody, unrecognizable pulp.  To avoid the security cameras was about as easy as avoiding a bus; all one had to do was look and see it was there, and then take a side-step away from its viewing-angle.  

However, there was one element of Arkham Asylum which never ceased to bewilder her: The Joker. 

The last time she’d spoken to the ghost known as Joker, he’d praised Jinxx on her bravery and intellect in knowing just how to manipulate and deceive the guards through such trivial feats of smug deviance.  As far as they knew in regards to her condition, she was not so much an unhinged, bloodthirsty killer, but moreso a child in need of a stern parental figure ("The lacerations found on this patient's groin and facial features are almost as though he's been attacked a Grizzly Bear.  How could Jinxx, being a woman of 5'6, have made such deep gashes without stilts and a weapon of some kind?").  

Through her youthful appearance, playful attitude, and her uncanny ability to leave a brawl without so much as a drop of blood on her, Jinxx had convinced a number of wardens to trust that she was as harmless as a fly, and that everyone claiming that she was anything otherwise were simply trying to cause trouble for the already troubled. Perhaps the security guards labored themselves under the delusion that she’d simply be caught in the wrong places at the wrong times only later to be labeled as the skirmish's instigator by any self-proclaimed witnesses due to her easily conceivable disorder playing as an advocate to  the conviction. 

Now that she’d unwaveringly presented herself as being a stubborn yet well-meaning creature with the mind of a child, it would be a simple feat for her to slip out of the recreational area, away from the ominous watch of the wardens, in order to finally find freedom out from the wretched dungeon known as “Arkham’. For a while, everyone would probably assume that the spry, young Jinxx had gone about playing a game of hide-and-seek (Which some of the more reserved nurses would take part in as Jinxx eagerly begged for them to join her, going as far as to tug their uniforms in earnest) and forgetting to tell them. It would only be a matter of time before it was realized that she was nowhere to be found. 

More frequently than not, the damaged insomniac would revel in the idea that she was more clever than the Doctorate-degree-holding goons, and eagerly anticipated the day that would be for her unannounced departure. 

Yet there remained to be one element of her escape-plan which continued to stump her; The man having applauded her for her effective manipulation tactics, which had ultimately placed her in the safest level of security in all of Arkham.  By Joker’s council, and by her cunning display of vacant bewilderment, she’d effectively cloaked herself in sheep’s clothing as she prowled among the very fools she pretended to associate with. 

Jinxx openly resented the malicious creature formerly sealed across from her, but didn’t deny that he intrigued her, as she did him. Now that she’d been reinstated out of Solitary Confinement, and transferred into the more commonly walked corridors of the Asylum employees, there wasn’t much to do that was worth Jinxx’s time.--

“Jane!” A leathery voice once more called out from the murkiness of her damaged mind. 

At once she responded, despising the fact that Dr. Christoper Kellend dared call her anything else than her true namesake.

“Why do you call me that?!” She snapped, before she abruptly heard the sharpness in her tone and immediately softened it into an airy, sing-song voice. “I am Jinxx; is it so hard for you to remember?”  

“Until you give us your real name,” Dr. Kellend reiterated for seemingly the dozenth time, “You are Jane Doe. But in the meantime, I must tell you that our session is done for the day.”  

His exasperation was evident, regardless of the effort he put into a more neutral, devoid expression. She’d spent the entire duration of his time drifting in and out of the present moment; zoning out to the point of absolute withdrawal from the world around her while he watched her with disinterest.  

A soft buzzing hummed in the adjacent room, but Jinxx didn’t react in any particular way other than a brief quivering of the muscles in her neck. 

Out of the corner of her eye, in the same instant that a guard had arrived to direct her back to her cell from the therapist’s office, she could see a rough sketch of what appeared to be her portrait scrawled over the pad of paper atop the young man’s desk. The picture not only detailed the prominent scar which stood out from her scalp in a thick, bumpy crease, but also her mismatched eyes which almost watched her from the page.  

Well, in retrospect, she  _ had _ been sitting still for a long period of time, which could significantly benefit the talents of a budding artist at work. The therapist had taken advantage of the opportunity she'd unwittingly granted him to sketch her unmoving stance.

“Is that me?” Jinxx asked incredulously, her voice high-pitched and spirited as she reached towards the yellow pad of lined-paper with grabby-hands.   
Christopher, at once, became flustered, and quickly snapped the cardboard pad against his chest in alarm, his gaze scrutinizing hers closely; probably trying to deduce exactly how much she’d seen of his illiterate doodles and sketches. 

Or if she noticed the prominent heart clearly branding the edge of the paper’s margins. 

 

There had been many a time where Jinxx was conflicted due to an event, or series of events, within this city known as Gotham; times where the questions would later be answered by a succession of situations. And then there were other times in which such facts simply held no reasoning behind their existence, and instead simply were. 

Doctor Christopher Kellend drawing hearts over a sketch of her he’d constructed was one such time wherein the answer seemed unwilling to present itself to the Insomniac. Would the inadvertently revealed secret change the course of events which were only waiting to be put into action? The orange-haired girl didn’t think so, but at the same time, a mild discomfort now clung at the pit of her stomach, having not existed prior to the discovery of his possible attraction to her. 

That’s when it hit her; with her efforts of manipulation and believably spry persona, the psychologist had developed an emotional attachment to her, however heedlessly of the risks he'd be taking after having made himself vulnerable to her.  If she were diligent enough, Jinxx could easily find a way to earn his trust, and ultimately gain a few benefits for being his favored patient. 

The idea didn’t seem impossible, as Jinxx already was aware of Christopher Kellend’s openly unbiased perception towards each of his clients, his positivity and willingness to aid the prisoners within the Asylum preventing him from seeing the plain sighted truth staring at him dead-on; 

All of them were anxious to escape; it was only a matter of how and when they would.    

Jinxx managed to swipe a pen off of a bumbling, forgetful Nurse who’d been notorious for leaving her clipboard in plain sight. It was a sign sent from heaven when Jinxx noticed she’d left the important object right where the young prisoner had access to it. 

The pen, now clasped in Jinxx’s hand, was immediately hooked onto the elastic hem of her panties, just beneath her barely modest asylum-wear. 

It was when she had finished concealing the sacred item that a guard noticed her peculiar ministrations, and took it as the young woman masturbating within earshot of the dozens of others, which was known as a massive violation of the rules.  

When the guard demanded to know what she’d been doing, Jinxx thought that her efforts at obtaining the pen had been founded out. It was only after her lips had curled into a bashful, giddy smile, and a playful giggling resonated from her dusty lips that the guard seemed to take pity on her. 

“You know it’s wrong to touch yourself in here, Jane.” He stated in a tone that was both frank, yet calm, as if he were scolding a child for having stolen a cookie from its respective jar.  Jinxx’s grin never left her bony face as she fell into a sitting position, her laughter almost seen as adorable as she smacked her bare palms flat against the cement flooring, and began to pant like a dog, her tongue hanging out of a partially opened mouth. 

“Arf! Arf!”

The guard’s amusement was evident as he ran a palm over the matted locks hanging lifeless down one side of her face. 

“Good dog.” He replied with a smirk creasing his weathered features before he returning to his watch of the various other inmates skulking throughout the massive room. 

Jinxx scowled in wake of his departure, her eyes immediately glimmering with the fire of pure, unadulterated spite.

“Jinxx… Jinxx… Jinxx… Jinxx…” 

 

Her handwriting was more wretched than she’d originally believed as she painstakingly wrote a convincing love-letter to her estranged psychologist. Eventually, having torn to shreds yet another fragment of lined paper she’d swiped from his office earlier that day, she instead set about the process of drawing a set of stick-figures to convey her intentions. 

Like a child’s drawing for their parent, the image conveyed at first appeared melancholy and simple, as though a toddler had  done it. But Jinxx labored under the assumption that her doting therapist would understand better her apparent ‘intentions’ than if she were to painstakingly write it out. 

After awhile, the image was completed, an overabundance of hearts sealing the belief that she was just as lovesick as he. 

She’d drawn a picture of herself-- hair combed over one side, with one eye significantly bigger than the other in order to represent her clearly contrasting irises--, and then the man in question, whom she’d conveyed as having a mop of stringy hair, and thickly framed glasses. Long boxes represented the torsos of the pair she’d depicted, which Jinxx then set about scribbling over as a way of illustrating the pattern that tended to manifest itself on the frequent changes of clothes she was given on a daily basis. 

Finally, after adding at least four more hearts around the borders of the art-piece, Jinxx felt inclined to sign her museum-grade piece. 

“Too: Doctir Kellind, Frome: Jane Dow XX” 

The juvenile spelling of their respective titles would probably have sold a court-judge, never mind a brainwashed Psychologist who labored under the delusion of his more addled patient being capable of love. Even Jinxx knew it was best to enforce such grandiose misinterpretations in order to save herself the effort of having to alter his opinions of her later on. It was for the best. 

Upon folding the makeshift “love-letter” to the boy in the white doctors-jacket, Jinxx returned the pen to its original hiding place before also placing aside the scrawled piece of paper next to it. 

This would be the beginning of the end for Jinxx’s residency in Arkham.    

 

(To Be Continued in ‘Madness Is A Nuisance’; Part II of ‘Project Complexx’, coming soon…)  

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to Comment/Critique! It inspires me to keep writing!


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